#probably gonna post this to ao3

[cod-dump]

John “thinks he’s unlovable and people merely tolerate him” Soap Mactavish; is unconvinced when Gaz tells him that he is Ghost’s favorite on their team. Vehemently denies it. He’d love for it to be true, but knows in his heart that it isn’t.

Gotta love that sweet, sweet low self-esteem that makes that sweet angst

___

A Bit Too Much

Angst below the cut

___

Growing up Soap was described as “a bit too much”. By his parents, siblings, the kids at school— He just accepted that’s what he was. “A bit too much”. As he grew, he tried different things to deal with this. Not engaging with people was his first approach. Then when people started saying “too quiet” he changed things up.

“A bit too much”, “Too quiet”, “Tries too hard”, “Thinks he’s too good for us”, “Bipolar freak”—

So he gave up. He put up a front full of confidence. This became the persona everyone knew. This was Soap, that’s how he was. Brave, facing the world with a grin and a smug comment. But even though Soap lived the persona so long, he was constantly reminded that, well, he was too much. Too friendly, too arrogant. He talked back, stuck his neck out. And when he got those looks from everyone… Well, it took everything he had to not let his mask crack.

When he joined 141 and met Ghost, he smiled and continued the act. The confidence, the know-it-all attitude. That glare from Ghost almost made him break. But he kept going. He proved himself to be a valuable member of 141. He earned his mark. When Ghost started to tone down the aggression, Soap simply told himself the man was trying to be nice considering they were going to be working together for the unforeseeable future. He had to be nice so they could work together smoothly.

The jokes were odd but considering how dark some were Soap took them as Ghost trying to remind him of Ghost’s reputation. Then the shoulder pats after a job well done— Those were always done in front of others. Ghost couldn’t show people his distaste for Soap.

One evening they were on a mission in a temperate forest. It’s been quite a bit since then so Soap couldn’t really remember why they were there. But they had to camp out there overnight. A fire burning between them, laying on their backs, looking through the trees staring at the stars. The others were passed out, and it was between either Soap or Ghost to keep watch.

“Get some rest, sergeant.”

“Me? You tell me that with those bags under your eyes?”

The chuckle that came from Ghost wasn’t like the dry, forced laughter that he had heard before. It was warm, genuine. Soap couldn’t remember the last time he heard someone laugh like that in response to something he said/done.

He’s tired, probably thinks a knock knock joke would be hilarious.

Soap insisted he would take watch and Ghost looked at him with unreadable eyes before agreeing. Probably didn’t want to bother arguing with him considering how stubborn and insufferable Soap could be. Soap knows how he is, he remembers his mother telling him that several times before he finally joined the military.

Since then, Soap would think about how Ghost looked that night. Though he was in gear, same skull mask and balaclava, faded black grease around the eyes. He looked so- so—

Soap had a bad habit of becoming obsessive when he finds a person that he likes. Someone who he genuinely loves to be around. Past girlfriends and boyfriends and friends in general called him “clingy” and some said he would stalk them. He never tried to make them uncomfortable, but when he finds that person who brightened his day just by him seeing them… He tried to be around them as much as possible. But he would be constantly reminded of how weirded out people were by that.

But Ghost didn’t give him the same signs that he was crossing the line like those in the past. Wasn’t told to back away, stop talking for moment, just leave him alone for fuck’s sake. Soap tried to give Ghost his space, watched what he said, and leave him alone as often as possible. He wasn’t sure why this man was so patient with him. His own parents never gave him this kind of tolerance. Soap wondered if Ghost, despite his reputation, was a lot nicer then what people made him out to be.

So after deeming that Ghost was too nice to tell him to fuck off, Soap decided to avoid him. The first couple of days, if Soap saw Ghost in the hall or in the room he entered, he had to remind himself to leave him alone. The man needed a break. After a week and a half he got used to the lack of companionship (though he knows Ghost was loving the change). After three weeks Soap found company elsewhere.

He would pick random recruits to annoy for a day then leave them alone. Sometimes he annoyed Price because the captain had some actually funny facial expressions and if Soap said something off putting, Price would let him know without any words. But he tried to leave Price alone as much as possible. He didn’t want to wear him out like he did Ghost.

So Gaz became his next target. After the first day of inserting himself into Gaz’s dad-to-day, he would talk about whatever with him. He could say things to Gaz that he couldn’t with recruits or with Price (his judging facial expressions were amusing but did have a impact after a bit). Gaz would engage back, which was a nice change to the hesitant replies from the recruits or the short replies from Price (who was usually working on something when Soap “graced” him with his presence).

He found Gaz in Price’s office filing things away for the man while he was away. He decided to join him, pulling a chair from the corner of the room and sitting next to Gaz. After a minute they started talking about random things. Then Gaz asked him a question.

“Soap, I have to know… did you and Ghost get into a fight or something?”

Soap was doodling on his arm with a marker when Gaz asked this. He looked up with a confused expression, “No?”

“Really? Everyone thought something happened between you two since you’re not hanging out anymore.”

“I left before something did happen,” Soap replied as he returned to doodling.

It was Gaz’s turn to be confused, “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Garrick. Man was bound to snap givin’ how much I bothered him!”

“Didn’t really look like you were bothering him. He’s been upset since you started avoiding him.”

Soap stops again, the felt tip of the marker presses into his skin. He’s been doing such a good job of avoiding Ghost and giving him his space that he hadn’t noticed how the man reacted to all of this.

“Upset? Sure it’s not been relief?”

He forced a laugh at the end of that statement but Gaz wasn’t laughing back.

“Soap, man is one wrong tone away from ripping someone’s head off. That’s why everyone thinks you two got into a fight. But you just left without any reason?”

Soap stares at Gaz, “What?”

“Soap… He’s been pissed at the world since his best friend just abandoned him!”

Best friend?

Those words shook Soap to his core. All his previous “best friends” were some poor sods who were a bit too friendly with him and Soap latched onto them, mistaking their tolerance for acceptance. He would notice after being dropped by someone he saw as his best friend that people would refer to them as his victim, not his friend. He never heard anyone referred to as his friend in general, let alone best friend.

“I’m-I’m not- He’s not my best friend. He could barely tolerate me…”

Gaz chose then to laugh, “You’re pulling my leg!”

When Gaz finally stopped laughing and noticed the incredibly confused look on Soap’s face. His smile drops and a grim look takes over.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

Soap shakes his head wordlessly.

“Seriously? You’re like his favorite person out of everyone anywhere. He likes you over Laswell!”

“No he doesn’t-“

“Man, yes he does! Where have you been where you think that you’re not Ghost’s favorite person?”

Soap stands abruptly, “Stop fucking with me, Gaz!”

Gaz flinches, “Soap-“

“Where have I been? Where have you been?! There is no way Ghost likes me- I’m just an annoying fly in his ear.”

Soap was nicknamed “Fly” as a kid by his dad, said he was as annoying and hard to get rid of as the actual insect. When he left for the military and eventually earned the callsign “Soap”, he never thought he would feel relief to be called a cleaning product before.

Soap storms off, leaving Gaz staring at him with concern written across his face. He all but ran out of the base, not caring how many people he almost ran into on his way out. He didn’t care that it was pouring rain or that he didn’t have a jacket on him, just a long sleeved shirt and some joggers on. He absentmindedly pushed his sleeve down on the arm he was doodling on as he walked. It was cold like hell froze over, which would have had to happen for Gaz, anyone, to think that Ghost liked him.

He came to a sewer pipe that they practiced crawling through with gear on to prepare for the field. But for now it was a place to hide. Soap crawled inside, finding it much roomier without twenty/thirty pounds of gear on. He curls up in a fetal position, every bit of his childhood, every moment that led up to him becoming who he was. To the mask that he wore every day. It all flooded over him.

His sisters complaining when he tried to play with them. His mother swatting him when he forgot to stop talking. His father forgetting to pick him up after school. His classmates talking about him behind his back. One of his teachers muttering “Something’s not right with him” as he walked away from her desk. His first boyfriend telling him that he was too clingy and that it was creeping him out. His first “best friend” telling him he was too weird and talked too much.

Once the dam broke he couldn’t stop the tears.

Out of all the cruel things that happened to him throughout the years, this was the cruelest of them all. That brief moment where he actually believed that Ghost liked him. That his laughs were genuine when Soap told a joke. That he actually paid attention when he told a story. That when Soap was excited about something he actually stopped to listen. But none of that was real.

Because Soap was a bit too much for anyone to handle.

[pastafossa]

Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️

Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.

This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3 Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.  He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.  There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.  Matt was alone.  You’d left him alone.  It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back. So… why did you feel so very sick?

Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1

Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.

Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.

At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen. 

A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that. 

Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.

This couldn’t be you.

When was the last time you'd looked that happy?

When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close? 

And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might… 

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”

Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again. 

What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:

A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.

A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.

An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes. 

You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back. 

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.

You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on. 

While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now. 

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run? 

If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin. 

At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.

“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?” 

“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your—in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.” 

“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?” 

You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours. 

You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.  

Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun. 

“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly. 

“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen. 

You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations. 

But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost. 

God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.

It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same. 

It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone. 

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. 

He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow. 

There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting. 

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.

Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path. 

But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face. 

“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”

“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.” 

“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”

Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?

It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.” “I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.” “I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.” 

And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise. Now that chance was gone. 

“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.” 

He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?” 

The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar. 

“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”

“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.” 

No. 

No, no, no.

Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again. 

He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime. 

“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”

“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given. 

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”

He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”  

He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.

You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.

Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade? 

And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?

It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned. 

Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories. 

But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you. 

There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.

Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained? 

That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them. 

Especially Matt. 

You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted. 

Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough. 

You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath. 

“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.” 

Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling. 

“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”

You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something. 

A breath.

He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.

“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.” 

Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up. 

Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.” 

“How did you know—” “Because there’s only one thing left it could be.” 

You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here. 

Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be. 

You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.” 

Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”  

It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same. 

Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.

“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.” 

“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”

“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”

He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!” 

“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”

“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”

It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy. 

It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.

And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”

Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky. 

If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty. 

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel. 

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”

You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.” 

The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be? 

The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more— 

You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest. 

Emotion. It’s emotion.

That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours. 

Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory? 

Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer. 

The stones. 

There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…  

You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times. 

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that… 

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them. 

You. 

And he’d loved you with every part of him. 

You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!” 

You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.

You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again. 

You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world. 

“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!” 

And with a blink—

He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.

You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.

“It’s me. I’m here.”

‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’

And your weakened heart… skipped.

He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.

He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.

“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”

And you… smiled.

He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.

The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild. 

The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…  

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”

And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind. 

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”

He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread. 

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”

He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back. 

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen. 

“Kiss me when you come back.”

On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”

“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.

“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”

Silence. 

And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere. 

Red threads never lied.  

You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there? You’d break that fucking door down.

He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach. 

Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again. 

He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it. 

The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer. 

“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Matt, just let me—”

“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”

A soft intake of breath. 

There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love. 

“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed. 

‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’

He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.” 

You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.  

“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”

Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest. 

“...D.” 

He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you. 

You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar. 

“Leave me alone!”  

And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.” 

He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—” “Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm. 

“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?” “Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.” You loved him. 

You loved him. 

The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name. 

“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.” 

“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.” 

“But—” “Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.” “How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.” “Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.” 

And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath… 

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all. 

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.

Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same. 

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

[rosedom]

Venti my beloved with A, D, I, K, M, V

Did I go to the max? Yes. Is it because Venti is literally my favorite and I'm madly in love with him? Also yes

-🌙

"you have summoned VENTI for the event . . ."

A/N : I AM MADLY IN LOVE WITH HIM TOO !! i can't believe this is my first drabble with him ,, i need to spoil my precious more . . .

✦ㅤㅤA = aftercare (what he’s like after sex, what he needs from his partner)

venti's the absolute SWEETEST during aftercare ,, no matter what happened—even if it's himself who's left all doe-legged and weak—, he'll fuss over you (but please fuss back, he deserves it !). he'll run his fingers through your hair, always needing to touch you in the aftermath. as you're busy running a damp cloth between his legs, he'll be humming, soft, a gentle melody that reminds you that he's here, that's he's happy. after sex, he's always happy, content: that's all you need.

well, that and a bath. it's not proper aftercare with venti if the two of you don't end up swaddled in the hot, bubbly water of a bathtub. he'll always end up in front of you, his back pressed to your chest with your own thighs bracketing his; he'll turn around, too, try n' bathe you and lather you up with softly scented soaps. it will be quiet between the two of you save for the gentle movements of the water and his quiet humming. bathtub cuddles until the water starts to get cold . . . then toweling each other off, dressing each other, and ultimately falling into bed with one another: all part of venti's ideal aftercare agenda.

✦ㅤㅤD = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of his)

baggy pants and tight tights = perfect leeway to hide a plug. i don't even care: venti is SUCH a sweet lil' anal whore (in the best way possible). i'm not a fan of this word, but there's no other way i can describe how terribly he loves playing with his other hole. there's been many a time where he's kept a plug—small, for when he's out n' about—nice n' snug, a heavy weight in him that he feels as he lounges about. he won't wear it when others will be near, no; but for when he's around windrise? when he's out where nobody will find him? yeah<3

poor guy has definitely gone through a few too many boxer-briefs, tho, the most of them all ruined with his slick when he plays like this . . .

✦ㅤㅤI = intimacy (how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect !)

a poet in the streets and a poet in the sheets. though he may not be in charge, here, venti's still endearingly romantic. he's got an obsession with your heartbeat, too, always trying his damndest to press close to your chest to hear the steady—or labored, depending on if it's your cock thrusting up in him or your fingers—beating of your heart. and even when venti's half out of his mind with pleasure, he'll still find a way to murmur sweet nothings to you: it's all, "I'm—I'm so lucky to have you," and, "i love you, love y—mm !"

as long as he can hear you in any way, he's content: sex-loopy and happy in your arms.

✦ㅤㅤK = kink (one or more of his kinks)

i see a lot of fics talk about a worship kink, but i don't really see it in the way it's commonly portrayed . . . see venti as being a tease about it, of all things, but he would never say, "won't you worship your god?" he would never put himself above you in that way.

but i'm not done. no, not at all. really, he'd melt with body worship—the type he doesn't ask for, but the type you readily give. he'd flush so prettily if you kneel at his feet, tenderling holding and kissing up his tender calves; his blush'd spill down his throat and chest, body so pink in his embarrassment, as your kisses travel higher, higher. he revels in the body worship—only if it's of your own volition—, in the soft presses of your lips against his skin ! it's not a power play, in this way. it's a tender devotion—the same one he shares for you.

and, less poetic: size kink. this guy's body is simply so small. anybody would be large next to him, in him. there's jus' something about a deity's submission . . . somethin' so sweet to me <33

✦ㅤㅤM = motivation (what turns him on and really gets him going)

the littlest of things can get venti's heart beating, but the thing that gets him most, time and time again, is your voice. he's so used to being talkative, for holding up the conversations (which are in no way one-sided ! don't get me wrong ! venti and you are just like that yapper x listener duo<3), that whenever he hears your voice, he always gets lil' butterflies swarming in his belly, a small typhoon of love and lust. especially at night, when he's cuddled into your side as you're dozing off, and you're talking back to him in that sleepy n' raspy voice . . . mmm, you almost know not to talk past 10 because if you do, he'll definitely jump your bones.

he swears he could write sonnets about your voice alone—but, first, he needs you to fuck him silly !

✦ㅤㅤV = volume (how loud he is, what sounds does he make, etc.)

the absolute loudest in bed. you're making him feel good, and he wants to make damn sure you know it (and maybe half of mond while he's at it). it only makes sense that he'd be able to be played like an instrument at that. it's simple: different things make him make different sounds !

for example, suckling at his cock all soft n' sweet makes him gasp, makes each breath leave him shakily . . . his sounds of overstimulation are always hitching cries, these sweet things that come crawled out of his chest. and, god, he always makes the prettiest lil' whimpering whine when you slide in that first finger, right up to the knuckle in his quivering cunt. no sounds of his are truly comparable—they're all gorgeous in their own right, after all—, but my favorite may be the whine he does when you're fucking him, balls-deep and with your own cockhead bumpin' his g-spot, and you reach down to his taint, to his unused lil' hole, all empty n' twitching as his cunt gets all your attention ><

no matter what play you do—nipple, cock, cunt, ass, thigh-grinding, clothed, whatever—, venti is not secretive with his sounds. good thing he's the anemo archon; elsewise, you'd have to have three foot thick walls to prevent him from disturbing your neighbors.

i may have pushed forth my own kink agenda a bit too much . . . haha, oopsies. i'm starting to fall off in the intimacy category 'cos there's only so much i can say without being repetitive between each character/ask o(￣┰￣*)ゞ

6 APR. 2024, @rosedom, rosey .

[wasyago]

im gonna start killing

[queenlucythevaliant]

harder than you think

i. When the Narnians stole Edmund away from beneath the Witch's blade, they told him he was safe. This wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

ii. They brought him to the Stone Table. It was night. Edmund doubted very much that he would find safety there, for he still recoiled at the name of Aslan. He slept fitfully and woke the next morning before the sun was up.

iii. A sliver of gold just beyond the tent flap captured his attention, there in the dark. Unaccountably, Edmund felt the urge to rise and go towards it.

iv. And there was Aslan, who was supposed to be fearsome, supposed to be dangerous, supposed to be powerful, and he was he was he was. Dimly, Edmund felt himself hitting the ground.

v. But then Aslan said, “Come, Son of Adam. Let us walk a while, and reason together.”

vi. And as they walked together, in the cool dewy grass of early morning, the Lion told Edmund everything that he had ever done.

vii. They were standing in front of the Table when the conversation turned. Aslan spoke a riddle of a house blasted into rubble which he would piece back together overnight. He spoke of flesh being pierced, blood being shed, and of rejected stones being used for new foundations. He spoke about water welling up forever, washing you clean of everything you ever did wrong, all the blood that you ever thought of shedding, everything you ever tried to steal, and a river that carries you home when you can't walk anymore and spits you out brand new when it reaches the sea.

viii. Edmund's head swam. Silently, he yearned for the wisdom to understand what he was being told; or, failing that, at least to remember it for as long as it took him to puzzle it out.

ix. And then, the Witch. Then, the battle. The thrones. A year passed, and winter came. In its time, it melted back to glorious spring.

x. “Edmund,” said Lucy one day. “There's something we need to tell you.” She and Susan were cloaked in springtime gossamer, like fairy queens in poems he only half remembered. They sat on the window seat in his study, holding hands white-knuckled: his two beloved sisters.

xi. “It's about Aslan,” Susan said. “And the White Witch, and how he made her renounce her claim on your blood. The night before Beruna, he went back to the Stone Table.”

xii. “He let her kill him,” Lucy cut in. “Instead of you. And then, because he hadn't done anything wrong, the Emperor's Deeper Magic brought him back to life.”

xiii. “We've been arguing all year about how much to tell you,” said Susan wryly. Then, a little gentler, “We don't want to hurt you, but we feel you ought to be told what he did for you.”

xiv. And Edmund, who had never forgotten what Aslan told him on that cool, dewy morning before the sun came up, shut his eyes and whispered, “I know.”

xv. I know, he said. I know that he died. I know that he did it for me. I know he lived again because I saw him the next day, and the next, and the next. I think I know what it means - or at least, I know the shape of it.

xvi. “Oh,” said Lucy. “We should have realized that he would have told you himself.”

xvii. “Yes. But please, tell me the story all the same.”

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

projection as a coping mechanism, my beloved. this is 1k about mickey being tired from depression stuff. please avoid if that's something you need to avoid. nice next door neighbor ian comes through for him.

mickey’s fucking tired.

the bad kind. the kind of tired that he feels in the grooves of his bone marrow. it weighs his limbs down, leaves his head heavy, has him sinking down - back slouched into the canvas porch swing that was left on his balcony by the person before him.

he wonders if they ever did shit like this. here. if they ever felt so fucking tired that they couldn’t keep their eyes open before the sun’s even fully set. 

tired like mickey. the bad kind. 

the kind that’s got mandy up his ass, calling him and making sure he’s not being a total fuckup again. 

he’s not, for the record.

he went to work.

he ate dinner.

he took a shower and all that shit so it’s not bad-bad but god damn it, he’s tired. in his head. in his marrow. 

mickey slouches back, the swing creaking beneath him. it’s not really cold enough for a blanket but it feels good around him. keeps his bones from spilling out and rolling off of the balcony. keeps the wind at bay, only touching him to blow his bangs across his forehead and in front of his eyes - gently - the pieces that fell and never quite made it back up. 

he lets it happen. let’s his eyes close, the pressure around them heavy and unforgiving. 

even when the back door to the apartment next to him slides open.

wind.

weight.

“oh… hey…”

mickey doesn’t move. doesn’t suck it up and make it look like his shit is more together than it is, like he normally does for him. everything’s too heavy. 

all he does is nod once. eyes closed. head forward. hanging.

and there is a little part in the back of mickey’s head that wants to snap out of it. to look better. for him. but…

wind.

weight.

“you okay…?”

it washes over mickey with the breeze, from one balcony to the next. 

is he okay?

“yep…” he murmurs, and fucking christ, is it draining. like it’s taken all he’s got.

and he doesn’t even know if he heard him. over there. on his own balcony.

ian.

even if he didn’t hear him, he must be catching on quick. mickey knows he ain’t exactly the picture of mental fortitude right now, with his blanket and his closed eyes and all of his heavy bones.

he doesn’t say anything else.

ian.

but mickey can feel the attention.

he should look away if he knows what’s good for him. 

below them, a car passes slowly to pull into a driveway - tires gripping over loose pavement. 

wind.

weight.

and then the back door to the apartment next to him opens. and then it shuts.

mickey takes a long breath in, using the momentum to pull the blanket around him tighter. he’s gotta do it before everything spills out.

because he’s back to being alone again.

like usual.

was the person who lived here before him like this? alone like mickey and heavy like mickey and just so fucking tired…?

he takes in another deep breath through his nose, his lungs aching.

and then he hears it - the door opening next door.

and then he feels it - landing with a smack in his lap.

for what feels like the first time in days, mickey opens his eyes.

“got an extra…” comes floating from the balcony over, plastic wrap crinkling as ian leans his elbows against the railing that faces mickey’s.

another gust of wind, brushing bangs over mickey’s face as he blinks down at what’s waiting for him in his lap.

a cosmic brownie. 

“sister used to make me think these things were magic. like…medicine, or some shit.”

ian’s words are casual, but the weight behind them is obvious and it should be too much. should be the last straw, mickey’s body finally overwhelmed. 

but instead… 

he reaches out of the blanket, hand settling over the brownie, and not much else. he hasn’t thought that far ahead. “...thanks, man…”

ian hums, his mouth full. but mickey can hear the smile on his lips. 

it settles over them for a few moments, oddly comfortable. more comfortable than he’s really ever felt around him, at least. and he’s been trying to be around him more and more.

wind.

weight.

“can i come sit…?”

mickey glances over for the first time and it feels strange too. the movement. the sight of ian leaning against the railing, looking at him not like he’s being a fuck-up, but like he usually does. when mickey’s bones are lighter and the space behind his eyes doesn’t hurt so bad.

and he…wants to sit with him? 

ian?

here?

mickey frowns, his brain suddenly turning to how impossible standing to go unlock his front door is gonna be. 

but he’ll do it.

he’ll do it.

“uh… fine…lemme-”

but ian’s giving words back - saving him the trouble as he snags the end of the brownie wrapper between his teeth and then hooks a foot over the railing, using it as a stepping off point to leap over.

he lands on mickey’s balcony with a loud thunk and mickey’s chest flutters. something with his heartbeat. a startle. or something else. 

and when ian gets to his feet, he’s close and real and he’s got a gentle smile on his face, grabbing the brownie wrapper out of his mouth to say it. “hi.”

mickey wishes he wasn’t so tired. wishes he had enough energy to drag ian to hell and back, but it’s just not in the cards. not right now.

later.

so he takes a deep breath, scooting his body over a little so there’s room on the swing.

before he knows it, ian is filling the space. sitting next to him and saving him the trouble of conversation by shutting the fuck up first.

no expectation.

just existing.

mickey wraps the blanket around himself a little snugger, the brownie tucked safe in his hand.

for later. 

for now, he lets his eyes close again, heavy and exhausted.

but this time, he has someone to lean on, ian’s shoulder solid and reliable where he slumps to the side to lay his head.

[sapphire-strikes]

High Tea and Low Jabs

A random Good Omens ficlet? Yeppers! As with every new series I fall into, I got a burst of adrenaline and had to write something. It's just a little one-shot intened to be dialog practice since I'm getting used to the characters, but I wanted to share! And, of course, it's a reader insert.

~

The roar of your bike faded as you pull up along the curb of a quaintly familiar bookshop nestled amidst the bustling streets of London.

As you dismounted and stepped onto the cobblestone, you ran a gloved hand through your wind-tousled hair, and your eyes fell upon the shop's weathered sign—a familiar sight amidst the urban chaos.

"A.Z. Fell & Co."

All around it, the streets of Soho were a symphony of honking horns and hurried footsteps, a stark contrast to the soothing hum of your engine that had been drowning it all out just moments ago. The city's pace, while invigorating in its own way, always seemed to tug at the edges of your comfort zone no matter how many times you made your way through it.

Wasting no more time, you pushed open the doors to the bookshop, and were immediately greeted by the familiar scent of well-loved pages and aged ink as the faint jingle of bells announced your arrival. As the door closed behind you, the outside world's chaos was replaced by a sense of calm that only a place as special as this one could provide.

Your gaze swept across the cozy interior until it settled on a figure standing by the window. His back was turned, and he seemed busy, hastily organizing and putting away a small stack of books, but even from this vantage point, you'd recognize that silver hair and those chipper mannerisms anywhere.

He tilted his head slightly at the sound of your entrance, but remained too distracted with his work to turn around and recognize you.

"Good evening! Please feel free to look around." He called out, assuming you to be a customer. "I'm closing up a bit early today, so I'm afraid you'll have to make a bit of haste, but do let me know if you need any help~"

"Ahh, my bad, Aziraphale. " A teasing smile creeped onto your face. "I'll come back tomorrow then." You shrugged and tucked your hands into your pockets, your grin only growing wider when you saw him perk up as he recognized the sound of your voice

"My dear," he exclaimed, his voice filled with a genuine excitement as the books he was putting away were forgotten in favor of taking in the sight of you. "Why~ You're early!" He hurridly fidled with the lapels of his coat before rushing to close the distance between you, pulling you into a tight hug.

While you should have expected the affectionate gesture, you let out a small "oof" of surprise, momentarily stunned. His embrace was drawn out, almost as if intentionally to give you time to process it, and your flustered expression slowly faded to a soft smile. You returned the gesture, hugging him back slowly.

"It's good to see you," you murmured, your voice muffled against the fabric of his jacket.

"Likewise. Likewise, my dear," Aziraphale replied, releasing you but keeping you held at arm's length. His eyes were warm and fond as he took in your appearance, it was as if he was making note of every little change since the last time he saw you and committing them all to memory.

After a second, his eyes lit up in remembrance, and he finally released you. He spun in a small circle, his gaze darting around the bookshop, back to the books he'd been putting away and then back to the door before quickly stepping around you and flipping the sign to closed. "Come, come, let's not stand about here," Aziraphale ushered you away from the entrance with a gentle hand on your back, his excitement was contagious as he guided you further into the cozy embrace of the bookshop and his joy was evident in every step.

You chuckle softly, a mixture of embarrassment and genuine happiness bubbling up within you. "You seem awfully excited. It hasn't been THAT long since we last saw each other."

"Nonsense! One can never have too many happy reunions, don't you think? Besides~ I've been positively looking forward to this tea time since you agreed to come visit, you know."

You followed him, your smile growing bashful but you allowed yourself to be swept up in his enthusiasm. "Haha..., yeah, tea time. You were serious about that? Way to make me feel out of my element," You laughed.

Aziraphale beamed at your words. "Ah, well, tea time is a tradition close to my heart, my dear. Living in London as long as I have, it's not often I'm givin the opertunity to share these customs with someone as..." He seemed to pause, looking for the right word, "As uninformed of the finer graces as you are! And I must say, it's been far too long since we've had a proper catch-up."

"Oooh~ So I'm uneducated?" You fired back jokingly. "That explains it! You're just excited to finally be able to teach me some manners."

"Uninformed, not uneducated," Aziraphale corrected. " There's always room for refinement. And I must say, I do enjoy being the one to impart such knowledge." He finally came to a stop at a cozy corner of the bookshop where a small table was set up, shouldered by two comfortable looking arm chairs. "Sit, sit!" Aziraphale gestured towards one of the chairs. "I've just a few more things to tidy up and then we'll get right to it!"

You couldn't help but snicker as you settled into the chair, the whole situation and Aziraphale's ever welcoming attitude begining to feel comfortingly familiar. "Take your time. I'm sorry if I caught you by surprise."

"Oh, think nothing of it. I've been preparing all day, and I certainly can't complain about getting to see you sooner than planned!"

With the promise of a quick return, he hustled off to finish his remaining "closing duties". Not five minutes later, he returned from out of sight with a bountifuly assembled tea trolley, where an array of teapots, cups, and an assortment of treats awaited.

Your eyes widened a bit at the sight.

"When you said 'tea time', you weren't kidding." You mused, the whole display reminding you of something out of a storybook.

"Why, of course!" He clapped his hands together, delighted by your astonishment. "Can I assume I was correct in my assumption that you've never experienced first hand the joys of a traditional english tea time?"

"Ha... You'd be right." You admitted. "I think you know by now 'refinement' isn't really my area of expertise."

"Fear not, my dear. By the time we're through, you'll be sipping tea with the utmost elegance and grace!"

"Oh boy, I can't wait." You quipped with well-meaning roll of your eyes.

"First things first, let's ensure you're properly attired for the occasion." You raised a brow, unsure of what he meant until, with a flourish, he produced a neatly folded napkin from seemingly nowhere and rounded your chair to place it on your lap. "There, that's much better." He clasped his hands together, beaming down at you proudly.

The small, soft gesture was enough to wipe the smirk off your face, a reticent pink creeping onto your cheeks in its place. It seemed that no matter how many times you were subject to it, Aziraphale's effortlessly attentive nature had a way of bringing you to submission every time. The angle was nothing if not a genuine sweetheart, and your sarcasm couldn't begin to hold up, especially not when he seemed so excited for this.

"Now~ Let us begin!"

His movements were almost balletic as he began preparing the tea, his hands moving with a practiced grace that spoke of years of experience.

"As you can see, I've prepared quite the spread," Aziraphale announces proudly. "We have a delightful Darjeeling blend for our tea, accompanied by a selection of finger sandwiches, scones, and assorted pastries. But before we indulge, my dear, there are a few essential etiquettes we must go over."

You sat up straight, looking as attentive as you could. "Lay it on me!"

"First, we must allow the tea leaves to steep properly," Aziraphale explained, his voice taking on a soothing cadence as he poured the fragrant liquid into two delicate china cups. "Patience is key, you see. A rushed cup of tea is simply a tragedy."

The liquid was a rich amber color that seemed to shimmer in the warm glow of the bookshop's lighting. As he passed you a cup, he continued, "Hold the cup by the handle, of course, never the sides or rim. And don't stick your pinky out—," He raised a hand, catching you mid gesture, "that's a common misconception. It's all about elegance, not pretension." You laughed bashfully, doing you best to mimic his hand posture instead.

"When it comes to adding milk or cream, even an amateur knows to pour the milk into the cup after the tea, not the other way around. It's the only proper method to ensure the tea's taste isn't compromised."

"Like cereal!" You made a crude comparison with a goofy smile, but Aziraphale nodded, grinning at your enthusiasm all the same.

"Precisely! Though, some would disagree with both notions." His eyes rolled to the side at the thought with a brief look of exasperation, but his giddy smile was right back in place as he passed you the cream. "Now-" he picked up a small spoon, signaling you to do the same. "When stirring the tea, remember to use a gentle back-and-forth motion rather than a circular one. This prevents any unnecessary clinking sounds and maintains the tranquility of the moment.

"Back-and-forth, gotcha gotcha."

"Ah, yes, and sugar!" Aziraphale's eyes lit up as he moved on. "A touch of sweetness is a lovely addition to a cup of tea, but one must be cautious not to overdo it. After all, we wouldn't want to mask the delicate flavors of the tea itself."

He passed you a small bowl of sugar cubes, his expression earnest as he guided you through the process. "Simply take a sugar cube with the tongs, my dear, and gently lower it into the cup. Let it rest for a moment to absorb the warmth before giving it a delicate stir."

You did as instructed, pausing to examine the small cube of sweetness with interest before dropping it in your tea. If you hadn't been doing your best to play along on account of this being so important to him, you might have plopped one right into your mouth to see how they taste. Probably just like sugar, but still.

"Now, the most important part—sipping the tea." He slowly raised his cup to his mouth in demonstration, promting you to do the same once more. "Take small, delicate sips, allowing the flavors to dance on your palate."

As you brought the cup to your lips, you took a cautious sip, mindful of Aziraphale's gaze. The tea's warmth spread through you, and you couldn't help but smile at the taste. It was a simple pleasure, a silly one, but one that seemed to carry a lot of importance to the angel.

Aziraphale watched you with a mixture of delight and anticipation, as if he were waiting for your reaction to the tea itself. When he saw your smile, his eyes twinkled with satisfaction.

You let out a small hum, lowering your cup to the table in accordance with his.

Aziraphale's smile grew even wider, his satisfaction evident. "I'm delighted you like it!"

"Now, onto the matter of accompaniments." Aziraphale beamed. He gestured towards the assortment of finger sandwiches, scones, and pastries that adorned the tea trolley. "Perhaps start with a biscuit or two? With the basics out of the way, we can move on to the best part as we enjoy ourselves; camaraderie and good conversation!" He clapped his hands together with delight.

You had to admit you'd been eyeing the spread from the moment he rolled out the trolly and happily reached for a cookie. But the moment was quickly interrupted when a chilling breeze seemed to sweep through the room. A flicker of something dark caught your eye, and out of the shadows emerged a familiarly lean figure that seemed to materialize from the very darkness itself. Their eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses, were fixed on you, but their expression was, at first, otherwise unreadable.

"Crowley!" You practically beamed as you said his name, biscuits long forgotten in favor of greeting him.

"And here I thought I'd locked the door..." Aziraphale muttered, more to himself than to you with a small roll of his eyes at the demon's dramatic entrance. But rather quickly, his usually smile returned, none the less happy to see the demon. "Crowley, lovely of you to drop in~"

Crowley's enigmatic smile slowly crept across his face as he sauntered forward, shedding his jacket with a theatrical flourish and tossing it out of sight without care. "Look who's back in town; the prodigal guest returns." Crowley mused before his eyes flicked to Aziraphale. "You might've mentioned you had company, Angel. I would've worn something more presentable." Crowley's voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something else, a hint of bitterness perhaps. He strolled closer, and you grinned as he made himself comfortable leaning against your chair, sitting halfway on the armrest. "But nobody tells me anything~"

Aziraphale's face flashed a lighthearted look of exasperation, his mouth opening and closing as he stumbled over his words. "Crowley! I didn't think—I mean, It was all a bit of a last-minute arrangement, I assure you."

"He's right. Plus, you're not exactly the easiest person to get ahold of." You commented with a smirk and Crowley lulled his head to the side dramatically, lowering his sunglasses to look you up and down.

There was a long moment of silence, the grin on your face fighting not to turn to a laugh as you stared at eachother. Rather dramatically once more, he scoffed and sighed.

"Oh, don't look so happy now. One would think you're actually glad to see me." Crowley smiled slyly, fixing his sunglasses back in place.

You could only laughed at that comment and Aziraphale regained your attention with a cough. A hint of jealousy flickered in his gaze as he noticed your attention being pulled away from the tea party he had so meticulously orchestrated. "If you are going to stay, Crowley, at least have the courtesy to participate properly."

"Ah~ and what, angel, would I be participating in?"

"Isn't it obvious? Tea time, my dear Crowley, tea time! And a proper one at that!" Aziraphale declared, almost triumphantly, gesturing to the china and assorted treats on the table. His eyes sparkled with a childlike glee, his enthusiasm for the tradition and formality of it all not at all dampened.

"Tea time?" Crowley cocked a subtle brow, glancing to you with an inquisitive smirk. "The angel's finally got you on that, has he?"

You giggled and nodded. "Aziraphale's been giving me quite the lesson in 'tea etiquette.'"

"And what do you think about it so far? Worth all the pomp and circumstance?"

Before you could answer, Aziraphale huffed indignantly, his cheeks still tinged with a faint flush. "Now, now, Crowley. There's no need for such sarcasm. Tea time is a time-honored tradition, and I believe our friend here is enjoying it quite thoroughly."

You nodded, your gaze shifting between the two as you fought to suppress more laughter. "Absolutely, Aziraphale. I appreciate all the effort you put into this."

If you didn't know better you'd say the grin Aziraphale wore after that was a smug one.

"See, Crowley?" Aziraphale said, sounding more than a little pleased with himself. He turned his attention back to you, his eyes bright with genuine affection. "The pleasure is all mine, my dear. It warms my heart to be able to share these traditions with someone as dear to me as you."

Crowley, not to be outdone and always happy to interrupt a nice moment, leaned over and mockingly inspected the tea trolley. "You'd think if they were that dear to you, you'd shill out a little more to eat than this pigeon picnic. This is hardly a meal, Angel. I've seen more substantial fare in bird feeders."

Aziraphale tutted in disapproval. "Indulgence is an essential part of any proper tea time, but moderation is key. It's not about the size of the meal, Crowley. A delicate balance must be struck between enjoying these delights and ensuring that the tea remains the star of the show. It's about the experience, the conversation, the ambiance—"

As amusing as it was, you were beginning to grow a bit worried by this back and forth.

"Ah, yes, ambiance," Crowley drawled, his voice dripping with exaggerated reverence before glancing back down at you. "What do you say, love? Want to follow this 'ambiance' with something a bit more substantial? We'll go for nosh up in Mayfair then." Crowley offered casually, nodding towards the door, and your expression lit up at the offer.

"That means get food, right?" You questioned with a rather doe-eyed enthusiasm and Crowley, pursed his lips to suppress a smile, patting you on the shoulder.

"Yes," he nodded with a satisfied expression, "that it does."

You grinned widely. The proposition was appealing, more specifically, the idea of getting to spend more time with both of them, regardless of the setting, was appealing. But you were quick to return your attention to Aziraphale, wondering how he would take this intrusion into his carefully planned afternoon.

As expected, the angel's face had turned a shade redder, his lips pressed into a tight line as he tried to contain his irritation. "I thought we were enjoying ourselves here," he said, a hint of hurt creeping into his voice.

"We are, Aziraphale," you were quick to reassure him, reaching out to pat his hand. "Everything is perfect." You were sure to emphasize, glancing to Crowley as you said so to make a point, as well as unintentionally prompting Aziraphale's ever subtle air of smugness return. "And if we do go out later, Aziraphale's coming too. Right, Crowley?"

"Of course~ Of course~ I thought that was implied." Crowley's grin widened, and he grabbed himself a chair, pulling it up to sit with the two of you now and looking quite pleased with himself. "See, Angel? We can have our cake and eat it too." He plucked a tea cake from the tray, holding it up in brief demonstration before taking a satisfied bite.

Aziraphale let out a long-suffering sigh but finally relented, his face softening as he looked back at you. "Well, if that's what you want, my dear, I suppose I can't object. But you must promise to enjoy every last bite of what I've prepared here first. I simply won't allow your first proper tea time to be derailed or distracted by the promises of this... dark varlet." He looked Crowley up and down with a prudish expression, but it was all very playful as he was already pouring the demon his own cup of tea.

"Oh, angel, you flatter me~"

"Sounds like a plan!" You agreed, smiling at both of them, and with Crowley included now, your very first tea time resumed.

[samisnotlegend]

In Every World

--

Hey everyone! I wrote a promotional fic for the @nomewithoutyoubkdkzine! Working on this zine has been incredibly fun, and I can't stress enough how honored I am to have been a part of this team. Preorders for the zine open on January 22nd!

--

“What do you want to play today, Kacchan?”  

Bakugou Katsuki, seven years old, took several moments to ponder the question. His rain boots, superfluous at the moment thanks to cloud-eating warmth of the summer sun, crunched over the rocky ground near a creek bed. 

Deku’s boots crunched right alongside him. His best friend’s hand was clasped in his own, and their hands swung together as they walked. Izuku squeezed his hand, and Katsuki squeezed back, still trying to think of an answer. 

They had played a lot of really excellent games already this summer…

Next to their path, the creek trickled and gurgled pleasantly, briefly tempting with an offer of not only a refreshing dip, but with tiny minnows to play with, and swaying strands of river grass to comb through for treasure.

Yesterday, Katsuki and Izuku had been the most fearsome pirate kings of the seven seas! They’d stood ankle-deep in the creek for hours, building pirate ships out of twigs and leaves, and racing them down the treacherous waters. They’d chased minnows and called them sea serpents, and once, a great kraken that looked a little like a crayfish had reached up with a claw, dragging their pirate ship down into Davy Jones’ locker! 

Katsuki and Deku had barely escaped that one. In the end though, they’d followed the map that Deku drew in the sand to where X marked the spot, and had unearthed their treasure, two shiny, pretty bottle caps. 

Katsuki was thinking of asking his mom for help so that he could turn their treasure into necklaces. He thought Deku might like that. 

Anyway… Katsuki was tempted to pick up where they left off yesterday. Maybe they could find the dastardly kraken and get their pirate ship back! 

But no, Katsuki shook his head. The same game two days in a row was boring. Deku definitely wanted a new adventure.  

Beside him, Deku continued to be patient. He hummed slightly as he walked, and every now and again, he did a little jump to make it over some of the bigger rocks in their path. 

That reminded Katsuki of the time that they had been adventurers. Katsuki was a dragon king, with a sword and a real dragon, and Izuku was a knight! They had some really excellent sword fights that day, and the great hero All Might himself had given them quests! At one point though, Deku had made a pretty gross potion out of mud, leaves, and a cicada shell so maybe they shouldn’t play that one again for a little bit… 

Katsuki thought back to more of their adventures. 

Before that, Katsuki and Deku had been genius inventors, building flying machines out of computer paper and rubber bands. Then they’d been youkai, jumping across the stones in the creek to go play pranks on humans! Another time, they had been brave nomads, trekking across a frigid winter landscape with no one but their trusty wolf and sheep plushies at their sides. 

They’d been rock stars, and superheroes, and doctors, and even angels and demons! Katsuki had been a fearsome dragon, and Izuku had been a sharp-toothed mermaid, and, and, and—!

Katsuki looked over at his friend. 

They passed under the shadows of leaves. The air felt warm, but a little cooler than it had been at the height of summer. Katsuki suddenly realized that their summer break would be ending soon. He felt a sudden pang of sadness, because he was really going to miss being able to play and explore with Deku all day. 

If summer was ending, then that meant that choosing today’s game was even more important. Katsuki huffed, his lips down turning into a small pout. He had to pick something awesome. Deku was counting on him!

“Hey Kacchan…” 

Katsuki glanced over at his friend. A glimmering slant of sunlight sent spots of reverse-freckles dancing across Deku’s cheeks and nose. The edge of his green curls glowed golden with the soft light. Deku smiled when their eyes met, and Katsuki felt his heart start to beat a little faster in his chest. 

Katsuki felt the weight of Izuku’s eyes and attention settle over his shoulders like a blanket, and the edge of his frustration crumbled away. He took a deep, quiet breath.  

“What, Deku?” Kacchan asked. 

Deku blinked as if he were surprised. Then he smiled even wider. 

“I dunno,” Deku admitted, “I forgot what I was gonna say.”  

Katsuki huffed, but the edges of his lips turned upward. “Dumb Deku,” he said, “Y’can’t even remember one thing from two seconds ago?” 

“It’s your fault!” Deku said, leaning in playfully to tip his head against Katsuki’s. “Kacchan’s eyes looked so pretty in the sunshine that I just forgot! They look sparkly an’ even prettier than rubies!” 

Katsuki spluttered, and felt the heat in his face return full force. “Stupid Deku!” He yelled, and pulled away from Deku’s hand to hide his face. 

Deku giggled, apparently unbothered. 

“You–! You pick the game today, Deku!” Katsuki demanded, blindly fumbling for something to distract him from his embarrassment. “Since you’re so—you’re so—!”

“Oh! You want me to pick? Hmm but…” 

Katsuki felt some of the heat leave his face, and he lowered his hands.

“You can’t do it, huh Deku? Psh, that’s why I–” 

“No, that’s not it!” Deku denied. “I can think of good games too!” 

“Oh yeah?” Katsuki crossed his arms. He felt better now that he and Deku were arguing, although when Katsuki skirted his eyes across Deku’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes, he felt his heartbeat quicken again. So he looked away, pretending to be interested in the swaying of the moss-covered branches of the maple trees. “Then why don’t you think of one, dumb Deku?” 

“Dumb Kacchan!” Deku fired back, “It’s because I don’t care what we play, obviously!” 

“Whaddya mean?” Katsuki looked back to see that Deku had jutted his bottom lip out in an adorable pout. Deku huffed, and, reaching out, he reclaimed Katsuki’s hand in his own. Katsuki let him. 

“I don’t care what we play,” Deku said again. “Because I’m happy as long as I’m with you, Kacchan.” 

Katsuki briefly caught sight of Deku’s smug smile before his face once more exploded into heat. 

“Deku!” Katsuki cried, but Deku didn’t let go of his hand, and Katsuki didn’t try to make him. Deku was so embarrassing! How could he just say things like that?!

After a moment, Deku started walking again, and Katsuki followed, hiding his face in his other hand. Their hands began to swing together again.

Overhead, the wind rustled the leaves together pleasantly. Birds chirped in greeting to each other all over the forest, and the creek murmured quiet sighs over every rock and twisted root in its path. A dragonfly, sparkling orange like candied fruit, buzzed over the water for a quick drink. 

Katsuki supposed that he still needed to come up with a game, though it didn’t really seem to matter very much anymore. Deku was right, he guessed. 

They could be astronauts, rebel thieves, superheroes, or even just regular adults with regular jobs! 

Katsuki squeezed Deku’s hand, and Deku immediately squeezed back. 

In every world, in every game, Katsuki knew he’d be happy just as long as he got to be with Deku. 

[highcaliberstupidity]

Dog Days Pt.1

Part 2 (TBA)

Soap's never been much of a dog person.

He doesn't mind them, really, he'd loved the pooch he grew up with. But a stranger's dog, specifically a large one, yeah, any man was right to be wary of them, right?

So it's totally excusable for him to yelp like a scared little kid when a forty-kilogram German Shepard assaults him via slobber and tongue in the middle of the park. Minding his own business, drawing away, and then BOOM, several kilos of a very heavy, very wet dog that seemed intent on drowning him in its drool.

Casting his sketch pad and pencils to the side, all he could do was throw up his arms, calling for mercy as the big bastard just kept licking.

"Bloody 'ell, Riley, down!" A gravely, thick accent shouts and the assault comes to a very sudden end. Not before the bastard sticks a paw in his gut for good measure, that is.

For a long moment, all he can do is lay there, blinking confusedly at the blue sky as the slobber starts to dry.

Disgusting.

"Shit, sir, are you alright?" The sun and sky are blotted out, dark brown eyes full of concern and messy blonde hair snatching his attention. "Swear he's not usually like this, got a bit too excited and broke'is damn leash."

All Soap can bring himself to do is stare, blinking stupidly as his jaw falls open a bit. The mutts owner is nothing short of god-like, with wide shoulders and a slender build that tapered out of his line of sight.

Despite the black medical mask covering the lower portion of his face, the big brown eyes expressed all he needed to know as he gaped up at him.

Christ, the fucker was beautiful.

"...Sir?"

"Am I dead?" Oh, good fucking going MacTavish. "Cause you look like an Angel." Yeah, way to put your foot in your mouth you fucking bampot.

Promptly the pale, beautiful face scrunches up, and he could swear he sees a tinge of pink flush across his cheeks. "Did you just hit on me?"

"Did I?"

"Christ, did Riley hit your head off a stone or something?" Actual concern blooms in his eyes now, kneeling down next to him with a low huff. "Most sane men don't try to hit on someone when they're covered in dog spit."

Soap promptly lets out an affronted noise, sitting up fast enough to nearly brain his own skull of the strangers. "Oi, is'yer mutt that slobbered all over me!" He puffs, doing his best not to stare now as his higher brain functions slowly kick back online.

"Right, sorry bout that, he's usually pretty well behaved. Not to sure what got into him." As if summoned, the mutt in question, 'Riley' went in for another lick, only to be gently scruffed by the blonde. "Nough of that lad, leave the poor bastard alone. " He grunts, amusement clear in his tone.

"So, any chance I get to know the name of my beautiful savior?" Jesus Christ, apparently his higher brain function wasn't back up to snuff just yet. The blonde looks at him, and Soap can't quite tell if the squint of his eyes and furrow of his brow is a grin or a grimace.

"Mm, maybe." Brown eyes evaluate him for a moment, fingers toying with the torn end of the leather leash. "Have a coffee with me to make up for Riley, and I'll tell ya."

Soap grins despite the flush of heat that spreads across his own cheeks. "I'sppose I could be convinced, I even know one that's mut-Riley friendly." The blonde snorts, but there's a twinkle in his eyes now.

Yep, definitely grinning.

Pushing up from his squat, the blonde leans down to offer him a hand. "Well, lead the way then, mohawk."

[blusandbirds]

you're making me uneasy (so maybe you can see me)

ao3 link

summary:

"Don’t be scared of Hangman,” she says, after she’s calmed down. “His ego’s over the hard deck, but at least he can back it up. You learn to live with him.” Bob shakes his head. “I’m not scared of Bagman.” She smiles at the nickname. There's a second where he seems to be considering his next statement. She waits him out. “I’m pretty scared of you,” he admits. (or: natasha and her new wso bond via twenty questions and nearly dying together)

surprise, my random top gun ficlet that i posted on tumblr like a year and a half ago but just now finally got around to cleaning up for ao3

[sword-and-lance]

so I wound up having a whole Thought Process in replying to a fic comment and just

okay fair warning this probably leans heavily on my own interpretations of Cazador and also Astarion and a bunch of the Cazador backstory in particular is pure headcanon

also fair warning there's discussion of abuse and sexual assault in here

BUT

man these two actually have quite a bit in common--the "my Master is an abusive asshole" thing being the big obvious one

also neither of 'em seem to have a great relationship with their families: Astarion never even mentions his in the slightest, ever, so I remain unconvinced that there was anything good there, and Cazador uh

well

Amanita's notes imply that there were only a grand total of like four remaining living Szarrs despite having multiple estates and a huge fuckoff castle smack in the middle of the city and yeah I absolutely headcanon that Cazador had most of them merc'd because none of them did a damn thing while Vellioth--who only married in and who Donnela picked for vampire-ing over her own grandkid because she held Cazador responsible for his dad (her son) going AWOL as a vampire hunter, it's a whole Thing I should really write it down at some point--basically ran the family reputation into the ground with his insistence on indulging his own brutal assholery over anything else (instead of balancing it with blackmail/politics so they don't get Found Out)

so yeah he is fairly obsessed with his family but in the sense that it's his and belongs to him and he gets to own it and shape it and bring it back to how it was when he was a kid and they owned damn near the entire Upper City in one capacity or another

so really no he isn't fond of his family but more the idea of it and being able to control it which is. uh. quite different!

and that kinda leads into my next point that they are both fucking Obsessed with power, "over people" specifically to quote Astarion in-game

I mean after all on Cazador's side of things: that was how Vellioth got to be where he was, that was what Vellioth wielded over him and all the other spawn whenever he decided to torture/sexually assault/etc them as he pleased, and that was how Cazador himself finally got Vellioth killed, too, and turned himself into a full vampire finally--it wasn't dry politics it wasn't law it was just interpersonal trickery wielding Vellioth's personal desires against him, and Cazador not only wanted his own abuser dead but wanted to make damn sure that it never happened again, that no one would ever be able to hurt him like he did

even when it meant hurting other people--LOTS OF THEM in all sorts of horrifying new ways!--to do it

and that's why he really just is not fuckin redeemable by the time we see him: he's molded his entire fucking existence around that notion, he cannot will not trust anyone but himself, he tried over and over with that as a spawn and always got punished for it--his family was not kind, his lone friend died for his kindness, and considering that his general social circle was a bunch of rich people, I'm willing to fuckin wager he probably didn't get any notion of it outside, either, and in fact it probably made it even easier to just think of people in general like things--cattle, even

so all that's left for him is (what has to look to him) like stone-cold objective knowledge that everything sucks, the world is vicious and cruel and the only good things you can have you have to TAKE by force or trickery from someone else and they don't matter, they'll only take from you the second they get a chance

and yeah Astarion clearly had a bit of a similar problem over the past 200-something years, considering--he was also tortured quite extensively for years, despite Cazador genuinely thinking he's being nice about it in an I HAD IT WORSE SUCK IT UP sort of way; he got faced with an utterly impossible task to constantly hunt down prey for his Master while fuckin starving the whole time, and eventually in sheer desperation resorted to literal prostitution only to be met with a very blase okay that works I guess keep it up from Cazador since it wasn't like Cazador really thought Astarion had much in the way of other talents to lure people in and all he cared about was having people lured in

shit, Astarion's entire approval set damn near until the last act of the damn game are just reflecting that mindset--the world is vicious and cruel and the only good things you can have you have to TAKE by force or trickery from someone else

...thing is, Cazador was basically surrounded by enablers and even outside of that is also hellishly stubborn and molded his entire existence around the pursuit of power because he thought that was literally all there was to anything, even to the point of making deals with not just a devil but one of THE devils, one of the Big Boys and one who's pretty damn tricky at that

he was not and is not going to give up on any of his plans, even if someone SOMEHOW gave him a chance to, and if we ignore the whole VAMPIRES EVIL LOL thing for a sec--far as Cazador's concerned, the kind are weak and murdered and tortured by the strong, and that is just how it is. that was how it always was and always would be and he's been surrounded by it literally all his life, personal and political, with basically no evidence to the contrary that doesn't immediately get ruined, whether at his hand or someone else's

if this isn't what he should do in life, then what else is there? just being a horribly broken person for literally eternity or until someone up and stakes him? he can't afford to let this go because it would obliterate his whole fucking identity in the process

...Astarion though at least has the benefit of running around with people who do not in fact enable his FUCK EVERYONE ELSE BUT ME! bullshit, and in fact (can be, anyway) relentlessly kind to him and show him that yes, actually, there is a life beyond what happened to him

there's a whole lotta life beyond it, actually! even while he's trying to "just" be manipulative, because the kind are weak and he can't afford to be weak when his Master HAS to be hunting for him by now, he fuckin fails at that and actually gets attached to the people trying to get him to knock off his assholery--they treat him like an actual person and he actually gets pretty into that despite himself, even though it clearly scares the hell out of him to have to make his own identity over again beyond just...being the flirty vampire

but thing is

he's at least brave enough to try doing it (presuming the non-ascended route--the ascended route he just refuses and falls right into Cazador's own neuroses), and when he's given the chance he takes it despite being terrified of it

he's seen more, he wants more and he's willing to risk himself to get it because it was worth it

Cazador though

lol nah

ultimately he's a coward about doing that exact thing

he's petrified of having nothing left of him if he gives up on what he's doing so he just never even tries and would pretty violently refuse any attempt to make him, for that matter--to him, it can't possibly be worth it

Astarion at least believes a small selection of people would be worth trying for

but Cazador's got none of that because he gave the fuck up on ever finding that and split the world into people he owned and people he would eventually own when he got what he deserved in Ascending after so many years of pure shit--and after his existence had turned into a meaningless morass of violence and horror that he inflicted on literally everyone around him like the walking nuclear fallout of a man that he is

part of being better is wanting to BE better, and (non-ascended) Astarion at least eventually wants to

but Cazador would very literally rather die instead

tl;dr yeah one of these two is a "small pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything"

but it ain't Astarion

[willowser]

what's to come...

multi-chap stuff will be updated on a two week schedule ! 🤗 the rest will be posted depending on where they rank in the poll ! 🦋

pleased to meet you, dabi x f!reader ! (roughly) five chapters remaining.

southern charm, cowboy!bakugou x f!reader ! two chapters remaining.

my heart's aflame, my body's changed (but, god, i like it), werewolf!bakugou x f!reader ! modern au — no quirks, angst-heavy, explicit.

i fought them all off just to hold you close and tight, vampire!dabi x f!reader ! post-apocalyptic au, a bit bloody, explicit.

loving me is all you need, dabi x f!reader ! this is the 'if he's a serial killer...' smut chapter, gore/body horror, explicit.

hell was the journey, but it brought me heaven, ex-husband!bakugou x f!reader ! dad bakugou, mom reader, explicit.

remember me, love, when i'm reborn, dragon!bakugou x f!reader ! cross-species courting, accidental marriage ???, explicit.

*reminder that nothing is being posted yet !! this is for in the future only, when my hiatus has ended !!

[getosbf]

A sneak peek into the new fic I'm writing :3

[cryptocism]

i love your thads au thank you for making it❤️. do you have any snippets of information regarding the clones that you might be willing to share? please I just love them so much.

omg thank u so much!!! and yes i do have a itty bitty tidbit actually in the form of a drawing of Eight without the goggles

i couldn't not make at least one of these boys have heterochromia it's in the self-indulgent oc handbook. also birthmark.

[anonymouslyanidiot]

i ended up playing mincraft (im proud of the skin but i gotta remake it.. i tried to earlier 2day but the site i use waznt workinfgg.. hhh at least m on a posting spree!!!!! yippie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

dont ask what i wax doing i joined an old sever that me and my frind used 2 play on.. hehe

[panda-of-the-trash]

Drabble 1: reflection

With the missions came quite a lot of grime and dirt. And how Cross hated his uniform being anything other than immaculate. Granted it was black, so one couldn’t really see if anything got on it. But still, he would know and it irked him. Not to mention himself. The Star Sanses and their allies, though friendly looking, could be vicious in battle. More often than not he got covered in blood and other bodily fluids, his own or someone else’s.

For that reason he absolutely loved Nightmare’s bathroom.

It was huge, with a crystal bathtub smack in the middle of the room. All of the bathroom walls, floors and ceilings were gray, but the shower, cabinets and sink were pitch black. And the faucets, they were all made of gold. 

Really it was the height of luxury and Cross would be lying if he didn’t feel a little spoiled whenever he could bathe in the beautiful crystal tub.

This wasn’t one of those days however, he’d just taken a quick but thorough shower to remove all filth from his body. He’d taken a hit to the face and wasn’t in the mood to take a long bath.

With a deep sigh he came out of the shower. The bathroom was full of steam, making his view a bit misty. Slowly he made his way to the foggy mirror and wiped a hand across it so he could look at himself in the mirror.

Wet white curls fell over his tan face. In some ways he looked so much like his despised creator, yet now after a quick wash, he looked like himself, not like the monster many made him out to be.

He looked tired. Cross knew his eye bags would never completely disappear but he loathed to look at them. He needed to look put together, presentable.

An endless sea of freckles still covered his face. It was one of the few things he liked about himself. He’d never understand why his creator made him with freckles in mind, imperfections were the things X-Gaster hated more than anything after all.

The only thing that was different was the giant scar running diagonally over his face. 

Earlier while battling the Star Sanses, he had been caught off guard and someone managed to slash his face. Luckily his eyes were spared but the cut was deep enough that it would inevitably scar. The red-pinkish line ran from the end of his right temple to the underside of the left side of his jaw. 

It made him sigh. He was already covered in a myriad of scars all over his body, but his face? Apart from the lightning scar and some small ones, his face was bare of scars. But after this, gods how would he ever be able to look in the mirror again. It wasn’t only a reminder that he was hideous, but that he failed.

Someone had caught him off guard. That couldn’t happen. He was captain of the moon guard, the force protecting Nightmare and guiding missions. He couldn’t be caught off guard. He couldn’t be slow. His world very much depended on him.

He was too busy looking at the scar to see the dark silhouette of his lover approaching through the mirror until Nightmare wrapped his arms around him from behind. 

Cross flinched the tiniest bit before melting into his embrace “ Mhh hi.”

“Hello darling, enjoyed your shower?”

Cross nodded, running a hand over his tentacles while Nightmare fussed over his hair a little.

He had been scared to face Nightmare so he went straight to their chambers to shower, but it appeared he could hide no longer from the king.

“I take it the mission went a little floppy?”

“Why would you think that?”

Why else could you be avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you..” Cross trailed off, going quiet when Nightmare arched a pointed eyebrow at him through the mirror. “Okay maybe I am a little.”

“Why darling?"

“Have you seen me??”

"What? This little thing? I hardly noticed.” At a returned arched eyebrow from Cross, Nightmare sighed softly. 

“I look appaling.” Cross sighed, looking away from the mirror. “I look like a monster.”

Nightmare frowned, leaning down to nuzzle his cheek. “You don’t..”

“But I do! It’s the only thing people will see when they look at me now..” 

“Oh my darling starlight…do you know what I see?”

When he answered with a small shake of his head, Nightmare gently used a tentacle to point his vision back at the mirror. Cross hesitantly looked at his reflection.

“I see a handsome warrior, a fierce guard that will stop at nothing to protect his home and the people he cares for. And the scars you bear will make it known to everyone that you conquered all.”

Cross blushed slightly, giving him a bashful little smile. The god certainly had a way with his words.

“Besides.” Nightmare lifted the hair covering the right side of his face, showing the long deep scars over his right eye. “We match now.”

Cross gave a soft chuckle.